


Genesis

by PhantomsDaughter13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Belly Kink, Childbirth, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Protective!Aziraphale, birth fic, is it mpreg if Crowley isn't a man?, labor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomsDaughter13/pseuds/PhantomsDaughter13
Summary: Crowley has always loved children (though he would never say so out loud). Now that the Apocawasn't has come and gone and Heaven and Hell have buggered off, he is finally able to do something he has secretly dreamed of.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 291





	Genesis

He couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Resting on the tight line of his shoulders, stroking along his heaving flank, brushing away fly-away hairs from Crowley’s sweaty cheek: the magnetic pull Aziraphale felt had never been stronger.

“That’s it my dear. You’re doing so wonderfully,” he murmured, both hands wrapped bracingly around Crowley’s shoulders as he trembled. His face was steadily reddening as the contraction rose and crashed through him mercilessly. 

“Breathe, darling,” Aziraphale instructed gently, pressing his hands more firmly to draw his attention back. Crowley responded by clenching his teeth so tightly that they squeaked against each other.

The contraction finally waned and drained out of him, leaving behind a deflated demon in its wake.

“You’re going to crack a molar if you keep that up.”

This earned a baleful look from glassy golden-eyes as Crowley straightened; well, straightened as much as he could from the hunch he had been curled into.

“Easy for you to say,” he grouses, though some of the vitriol escapes his delivery with how breathless he sounds. He can’t stop the very slight full-body shiver, wincing before schooling his face at the ache alighting bright and vibrant in his hips. He curses as he has to catch his balance against the bookshelf, panting hot and hard at the sharp pull in his lower back. 

A deceptively strong arm wraps around his waist, effortlessly propping Crowley’s clammy and shaking frame against a strong shoulder. Crowley shamelessly leans into the angel, the heat and solidity of his body a brief reprieve as the pain drags it’s way slowly through him as it reluctantly lets go for now. Aziraphale presses a kiss against his temple while resting his other hand on the lower curve of his tight, heavy belly. He absently draws little soothing circles into the skin.  
It was still so strange to see Crowley’s frame pulled to the physical limit like this. Crowley, who gained weight no place other than his middle, was still almost frighteningly slender, which made the baby bump even more startling. It pulled his corporation as far as it could adapt, the curve of his back pronounced and the lines of his ribs sharp.

Crowley, exhausted and overwrought, allowed his head to fall sharply onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his hands joining the angel’s right at the bottom of his belly. 

“I just need this _blessssssed presssssssure_ to _sssssstop_ ,” he hisses, shifting jerkily. “It’s driving me absolutely mad.”

__

__

Aziraphale clucks sympathetically, wishing he had the ability to take the pain and discomfort away. “Come and rest for a moment,” he encourages instead, the arm around Crowley’s back gently trying to lead him to the plush sofa. The demon dazedly shakes his head, trying to pull away.

“Can’t,” he says breathlessly, trembling too hard to go more than a step back from the shelving. “Too much pressure. Can’t _sssssstand_ it,” he moans, rubbing at the bottom curve in a few rough, sharp motions. Aziraphale gently but firmly pulled a hand away and entwined their fingers, stroking his knuckles with his thumb. With his other hand he rubbed between his shoulder blades in long, sweeping strokes.

“Oh, fuck, not again,” Crowley whines, desperately reaching out to Aziraphale and hanging quite heavily from his shoulders. Aziraphale steadies his stance and takes on all of Crowley’s shuddering weight, speaking encouraging things softly as he huffs and shakes and groans in his grasp. This contraction seems to last an eternity, certainly longer than the last one. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s panicked breaths ratcheting up as the surge seemed to never end. One broad hand came up to cradle the back of Crowley’s skull, his own stomach twisting at the sheer agony radiating from the one in his arms.

While Crowley is often keen to fits of dramatics, he will box his hurt up and keep his agony quiet when he is actually in pain. In all of their 6000 years wandering the earth together, Aziraphale could count on two hands how many times Crowley had been hurt enough in his presence to not be able to hide it. Oh, he certainly got himself into trouble throughout the millennia, with wiles and tricks and schemes that failed and earned him consequences ranging from embarrassing to disastrous. But this was something different. It made him feel more helpless than the time he watched Crowley be burned at the stake in Salem. 

“It’s almost over, love, that’s it,” he whispered against the crown of Crowley’s head. Crowley rolled his forehead desperately against Aziraphale’s shoulder, long fingers twisting in the back of his vest. A hot flare of protectiveness surges through Aziraphale as Crowley slumps limp against his chest as his tightly-wound body is unceremoniously released. He can’t help but send out a surge of power to protect and obscure the bookshop from prying eyes. He couldn’t be held accountable should anyone from Above or Below come poking about.

Taking one more look around, he kisses fiery-red hair and folds his arm more snugly around Crowley’s waist, half coaxing and half carrying the demon over to the plush cushions.

The demon bats off his hands as he gives in to trying to settle on a cushion. Taking it in stride, Aziraphale sits and lets him decide what to do, running one hand firmly from the middle of his shoulders down the curved column of his spine as he turns around. Crowley settles draped along the backrest, knees spread wide while he kneels, belly hanging hard and heavy before him. Aziraphale adjusts his stroking to settle at his sacrum, rubbing firmly and getting a rough groan from deep in Crowley’s chest. 

He makes it three passes before Crowley’s fidgeting ramps up and he unceremoniously tears off the fabric of his thin dressing gown, distractedly snapping his fingers to remove it when it tangles around his waist. He lets out a relieved breath when he is fully bared, even as he shivers, the air cooling his sweat-slicked skin. He rests into a deeper kneeling position, thighs spread wide as he rests on his heels.

“Better?” Aziraphale asks, holding his hand aloft. He receives a jerky shrug from one shoulder and sighs.

“Poor thing. Here,” he holds out a miracled glass of water. “Come on,” he coaxes, bodily maneuvering him until his face was no longer obscured by the cushions. “Just a few sips.” 

After begrudgingly taking a small sip, Crowley surges forward and drains the glass halfway in a hasty few gulps before it is pulled away from his lips.

“Slowly, now. Don’t make yourself sick,” Aziraphale says, giving in and returning the glass at the unfocused look he receives. Crowley steadily drains the water once Aziraphale holds the glass back to his mouth. He receives a tender stroke of his cheek in reward as he holds himself back from guzzling the liquid as quickly as possible down his parched throat.

They sit quietly together while the fire crackles, Aziraphale’s hand coming to rest, palm flat, again at the small of Crowley’s back, allowing some of his ethereal heat to soak into the tight muscles.

Crowley had been at this for the last twelve hours, though Aziraphale had only only known about it for the last six. Crowley still wouldn’t apologize for not interrupting Aziraphale in the middle of reading a very old and recently discovered version of the Saint James Bible where all the e’s had been replaced with a’s during printing. Aziraphale had wanted to see if anything else had been switched the whole way through, and so he was meticulously reading through it paragraph by paragraph. During this, Crowley had been pacing the halls, quiet and restless as he had been for the last few days. He had become so uncomfortable by this point in his pregnancy that all he could seem to do was pace until he was so exhausted that his corporation forced him to sleep to recover.

A choked gasp broke through to the angel from his project, and he looked up to see Crowley leaning over the monstrosity of a desk in the corner with one hand holding himself up, the other held protectively over the curve of his suddenly very hard belly. Aziraphale could see how tightly wound all of his muscles were, only a very faint tremor visible from how stock-still he stood. The book was thoughtlessly thrown to the side as he stood and crossed to him in the span of a breath, wrapping an arm around his back and whispering encouragements in his ear. 

The pain wasn’t the problem, Crowley was discovering. Pain was something he knew how to handle. It was the deep, burning, aching pressure that was pushing down harder and harder into his pelvis and deeper into his hips that was wearing away at him. Twelve hours in and his waters had yet to break, though it was clear that active labor had come and was here to stay. It was driving him absolutely wild with discomfort.

Aziraphale offered to draw him a bath, allow the water to maybe help buoey his weight, but after a few minutes of resting in the warmth he started feeling like a turtle trapped on its back. He couldn’t stay still in one spot or the pressure was overwhelming. 

Aziraphale, understanding, soothing, gentle being that he was, helped Crowley up without a word and settled him gratefully on his feet after a contraction left him practically writhing in the water, his hands cracking hairline fractures in the porcelain. 

So moving around it was. From room to room, they moved around the bookshelves, avoiding the stairs, but winding through the shop with doggedly determined steps for most of the last few hours of Crowley’s labor. He was flagging, breath he shouldn’t need catching in his chest during the height of his contractions, stomach visibly hardening and pulling in tightly. 

He would look to Aziraphale each time they ended, golden eyes manic with pain and seeking comfort in the aftermath. Aziraphale gave it freely, heart aching in his throat.

They knew the only thing they could do was wait, and so they did. But Aziraphale was getting worried.

Crowley lasted kneeling on couch for two contractions and then dazedly began pulling himself to his feet, the shuddering of his body more violent. Aziraphale jumped up and levered him safely to a standing position, bracing him tightly against his side. 

“I can’t…” Crowley gasped, hair falling in front of his face and sticking to the sweat on the side of his neck. He had been progressively bending forward, hunched over his heavy belly as it dropped lower. 

“Shhhh,” Aziraphale soothed, one hand around his waist and one resting on his chest, rubbing softly against his sternum. He could feel the battering of Crowley’s heart under his palm.

Crowley’s pale face went blank, his eyes looking inward. One of his hands clumsily scrabbled for his wrist, holding it tight against his chest. 

“Angel…”he whispers, fingers gripping so tightly that he could feel the little bones in his hands being compressed. A dark moan vibrated from the demon’s chest, the hair rising on the back of Aziraphale’s neck at the primalness of the resonance. He had witnessed enough births through the millennia to know that they were getting close. So he stood firm, his strength holding Crowley upright as he moaned and vocalized his pain, body tightening wildly out of his control. 

He collapsed against Aziraphale when it finally let go, winding his arms gingerly around his shoulders. The angel held onto his hips, pushing hard. Crowley’s moan broke with a soft whimper and he leaned bonelessly against him. 

His belly pressed against Aziraphale’s own, tight enough to be slightly uncomfortable. Aziraphale cherished the feeling, swallowing tightly at the bittersweet knowledge that the sweet curve would soon be gone. 

“That’s it, my dear,” he whispered softly. “I’ve got you.” 

**

They rested together for a bit, Aziraphale’s forehead resting against the damp crown of Crowley’s head. He rocked the demon gently from side to side, hands still held tightly around his slender hips. He could feel the twitching of the muscles under his hands, spasms striking from advancing aches. 

Crowley was resting against him more heavily, steadily allowing Aziraphale to completely hold him up until he was hanging from around his shoulders. The angel held him easily, allowing his arms to loop around and brace the middle of his back as he rested in a half-squat, pale thin thighs continuing to shake minutely. 

A rough grunt catches in his chest Crowley pressing his forehead hard against Aziraphale’s throat as he is pulled under by another surge. His breaths were ratcheting up to a point of hyperventilating until a gasp was punched from his lungs. His hands let go of Aziraphale’s shoulders and he would have fallen into a heap at his feet if the angel didn’t react fast enough to slow his descent by grabbing him under his arms and lowering him down. Once safely on the wooden floorboards, Crowley dropped onto knees, hands pushing roughly at the tops of his thighs as his face takes on a look of panic. 

“Fuck,” he gasps raggedly, nails biting sharply into his skin as he squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth. Aziraphale kneels before him helplessly, reaching out and putting his hands on Crowley’s thighs as well, squeezing firmly to try and draw back his attention. 

Crowley hiccups through a few shallow breaths before he groans deeply and bends forward, hands going between his legs as he arches his back, the lines of his vertebrae sharp through his pale skin.

“Angel,” he begs, voice wet and frantic. Aziraphale reaches to clasp both of Crowley’s hands without hesitation, allowing the demon to fold until his sweaty forehead rests on the tops of their entwined fingers. 

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers through the lump in his throat, unable to do anything but watch and squeeze his hands back. Even second-hand, the agony was brutalizing and terrifying. How had humanity continued on if this is what it took to bring forth new life? It couldn’t be worth it, surely. This was pure torture. 

“It’s almost over, you’re almost there, my dear, you’re so close,” he whispered frantically, bending closer until he was whispering directly in Crowley’s ear, not knowing exactly what he was saying, but so desperate for the end to be in sight. “You’re so close.” 

“I can’t do this,” Crowley gasps, a thick breath sounding deceptively like a sob wracking his chest. Aziraphale clenches his eyes closed reflexively at the sheer torment in his voice before swallowing it down.

“You’re already doing it, sweetheart,” he says shakily, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his neck. 

“No,” Crowley pants, “no, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he slurs, words and sounds blending together in exhaustion until he can only moan through the next pain.  
They stay curled together on the floor for the next few contractions, Crowley tightening his grip until Aziraphale’s fingers have gone a sort-of painful tingly sensation. He ignores it and encourages him to grip tighter, to express the pain tearing him to shreds through touch and sound. 

It becomes a never-ending cycle, the deep, aching pain tightening the muscles in his abdomen and back before sharpening almost to a point that Crowley can’t take. He’s never felt pain of this caliber before. Hell has absolutely nothing on the agony of transitional labor. 

Aziraphale does the best he can to be both a silent support when Crowley can’t bear to listen to anything but the racing pulse in his ears and a gentle encourager who helps push back Crowley’s damp hair, rubbing up and down between his shoulder-blades, brushing against where his wings lie hidden and giving him a sensation that isn’t pain. He busses kisses against wherever he finds bare skin during these lulls, pressing his lips to Crowley’s cheek, ear, neck, shoulder, upper arm. 

At the end of the latest contraction, Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s hands and shakily maneuvers himself upright, resting back on his haunches. His eyes look a little bit more lucid than he has in a good few hours. The color is high in his cheeks, but he looks at Aziraphale fully for the first time in what feels like an eternity. 

“You look tired,” Crowley rasps, reaching out a shaking hand to brush a thumb against the corner of his eye. He moves his hand so he can caress the line of his cheek, tender and gentle. 

Aziraphale shakes his head slightly in disbelief, tilting his head to kiss the palm of his hand, his own coming up to cradle it against his cheek. 

They breathe together for a few moments more before Crowley pulls him forward by his chin to plant a solid kiss on his lips, nipping it quickly before pulling back with the tiniest smirk. Aziraphale breathes through the shot of heat that bolts down his spine, but has an easier time smiling back at the bright eyes he meets in return.

Crowley takes back his hand and rests it at the base of his now oblong belly, pressing in slightly low between his hips and hissing. Aziraphale reaches out an arm and curls his fingers around his bicep. 

“It’s right there,” Crowley breathes, shifting his position and wincing as something pulled jarringly within. “Fuck, it’s so heavy.” He tilts his head left and right and sighs as his neck cracks in a series of satisfying pops. He looks down at the wooden floor under his knees and his expression turns contemplative. 

“I don’t think I can move,” he says softly, a furrow delving deep between his brows. He glances up. “Help me? I can’t feel my legs.” 

Aziraphale jumps at finally having a task, moving behind the demon to help him untangle. He ends up sitting behind him, pulling him back into his arms. His head is allowed to rest comfortably in the crook of his neck with the angel’s arms resting warm and bracingly around his waist, thumbs pressing down into his hips. Crowley bends his knees up with a biting curse of discomfort, feet pressing firmly down onto the floor as sensation floods back through them. 

He shivers in Aziraphale’s arms, and this time he can hear the sound of his teeth chattering along with each one. With a spare thought, the fire burning in the fireplace burns higher and hotter, crackling merrily. 

“What do you need?” Aziraphale asks softly, relishing the feeling of the body cradled against him in this moment of tentative peace. 

Crowley’s hands move up to cradle his stomach, fingers distractedly rubbing soothing strokes along the sides. The baby hasn’t moved much in the last few days, but Aziraphale wonders if he or she or they are protesting against all this contraction nonsense constricting against them. 

“You’re doing it,” he rumbles, a rough repetition of Aziraphale’s earlier words. He nestles back pointedly into his embrace. He closes his eyes and sighs against the warmth, the angel’s solidity and strength. He can sense the faint stirring of the next ache and can’t help but start to tense up in dread. “Don’t let me get lost.”

Tightening his hold, Aziraphale allows himself to tuck his face down into Crowley’s neck, just for a moment. 

**

The next few contractions hit differently, but Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s due to progress or the new position. He has moved his hands to rest with Crowley’s along the sides of his belly, feeling his still somewhat shallow breaths make it rise and fall within his grasp. The contractions seem to now hit all at once instead of ramping up to full strength. Crowley groans out a long breath, head thrown back against Aziraphale while his legs twitch and pull back to frame his belly. 

Aziraphale can feel the sheer steely strength of his abdominal muscles during each one, silently marveling at just how powerful they are. When they let him go, Crowley goes practically limp against him, breath shallow and his entire lithe body drenched in sweat. 

There is no need for words between them anymore, emotion ramping up bright and powerful as the time draws near. 

Crowley’s hands roam restlessly from looping tightly around Aziraphale’s thighs to digging his nails into his own. His back arches and bows with each bolt of pain, noises falling from his throat as he works through each one by the skin of his teeth, a little more desperate from one to the next. 

Aziraphale pulls back strands of long, wet red hair from where they tangle at the base of his skull, allowing his fingers to gently untangle the knots, rubbing behind his ear and as soothingly as possible at the base of his neck. 

This last contraction has held the demon in its clutches for much longer than the last few and Crowley’s desperation is turning closer to terror at the lack of respite. He drinks in large gulps of air through his teeth, beautiful golden eyes clenched shut tightly and jaw locked in a pained grimace. 

“Fuck,” he grates out sharply, writhing for a moment before dragging himself upright like a man drowning. Aziraphale moves with him, arms braced around his back as he helps him find a less painful position, if possible. Crowley sobs out a few breaths, shoulder-blades winging with how sharply he arches, curling protectively around his belly. The vertebrae of his spine look fragile as they press up against his damp skin.

His hyperventilating breaths slow into erratic pants, his belly pressing very softly against the floor where he holds himself up on shaky arms. He hangs his head down, closes his eyes as he sways slightly. Aziraphale once more rests the palms of his hands flat and wide against the twin dimples at his sacrum, pushing forth a little angelic energy to try and give him some comfort. Crowley leans back into his grasp with a shudder. 

Before long, Crowley clumsily leans back and grabs hold of Aziraphale’s hands, clasping them hard for support as he pulls up one foot underneath him until it’s flat on the ground. He lets out a pained moan at the stretch between his hips. There’s a new type of energy around his movements, purposeful and exact. When he let the angel’s hands go to curl his own tightly around his knee, Aziraphale knows. 

The muscles in Crowley’s back go rigid, the tendons in his neck sharp. He is absolutely silent, weight leaning further and further into the leg he has upright, widening his stance to open his hips. He lets out a tight grunt and but keeps going, falling quiet as he pulls hard at his knee, whole body straining. Aziraphale isn’t sure if he should touch him, so he clutches his hands together in his lap until his knuckles turn white and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Angel,” Crowley groans breathlessly, every muscle in his body pulled taut. He sounds more pained at their distance than the current contraction clawing through him, and Aziraphale berates himself harshly at his own stupidity. In the span of a breath he is pressed up against his back, helping to prop him upright with his chest as he leans into the very last moments of the contraction. 

He drops a quick kiss onto the junction of his neck and shoulder as the demon releases a huge gust of air and breathes raggedly, awkwardly dropping his weight back over onto the leg bent underneath him. A quick hand on his flank keeps him from toppling over. His head is tilted back once more in the comforting dip of Aziraphale’s shoulder and his eyes are half-lidded, his thin lips red and bitten as air puffs rapidly through them. 

“Nicely done, my love,” he whispers against his clammy temple. “You’re doing so well.” 

It’s not long before the next pain comes, and Crowley pushes hard with it, widening his hips and straining with all his might. The muscles in his belly pull so tight that he can see the low, heavy shape of his burgeoning womb. He marvels at the strength of Crowley’s corporation, hands running gently up and down heaving sides, fingers sliding between sharply shadowed ribs, before holding them still when Crowley cries out. His voice his rough and restrained, the noise sounding forced without his consent. 

He manages to pull in one desperate breath before he is dragged viciously into another push, veins starting to bulge in his forehead as he colors, flushing from his chest up to his fiery roots. He curls around his belly and heaves growling low and dangerously from his chest. 

“So good,” Aziraphale whispers, one of his hands moving down to cup the base of his belly, unable to keep himself from feeling the strength of the muscles work.

The growl rumbles through Crowley darkly, a low, primal sound that causes goosebumps to run up the angel’s arms. 

Now that the end is in sight, there’s no stopping until the deed is done. Crowley starts to lose some of his focus around the first hour mark, letting how a sharp yelp in the middle of a contraction and losing his balance, one arm catching his weight between his legs. He vocalizes through the rest of his contraction, rocking his hips forward and back as he strongly pushes down, down, down and out. 

In the very brief gap between pains, he roughly reaches between his own legs, feeling around his opening. It is starting to round out as something big and heavy presses against it from the inside. He bares his teeth sharply when his fingers breach his hole.

“ _Burnsssssss_ ,” he huffs, canines lengthening into points as he twists his head back and forth like an agitated asp. He is pulled forward ruthlessly with another sharp contraction, hand flying to brace between his legs as he pushes again.

It continues on and Aziraphale runs his fingers over Crowley’s naked body, between his shaking thighs, over his lean arms, up and down the line of his spine.

His glute muscles tighten and flex with each push, his stance widening as he rocks in tune with them. He switches between holding each push for as long as he can and giving multiple harsh, quick strains, little grunts escaping his throat. 

Finally, he yells out sharply, hyperventilating as one shaking hand goes back between his thighs, fingers fluttering but unable to touch. His bag of amniotic fluids, somehow still whole and unbroken this far into labor, bulges out between his legs. He shifts in discomfort, sweat dripping from his brow.

Another contraction hits hard, forcing him to keep pushing even though it is clear that he doesn’t want to. His mouth opens in a wordless cry as his whole body strains, the water bulging wider between his legs. He tips over slightly until he is resting on his hands, one leg still pulled up and out of the way.

With each push his entire body shudders with agony, thighs shaking hard. His waters ruthlessly open him wider and wider until they spread him in a huge, perfect circle. Crowley’s face a mask of anguish, eyes clenched closed. Weak little pained breaths escape his teeth, each close to a whimper. 

Aziraphale places his hands gently on both his buttocks and Crowley’s entire body trembles. “Do you want me to pop it?” he asks, absolutely hating that there is so little he can do at the moment. He blinks when Crowley shakes his head hard, almost losing his balance in his desperation. Aziraphale catches him around the hips.

“Leave it,” he begs, “ _don’t touch it_.”

A hard breath escapes Aziraphale before he kisses the small of Crowley’s back in acquiescence. “Okay, I won’t,” he soothes. “I promise.” 

Instead, he winces along with Crowley at each contraction, biting his tongue and desperately trying to keep his touches light and comforting.

It seems like not much is happening now, even though each push drags increasingly pained noises from the demon. His entire body is now covered with sweat, the skin around his poor hole red and swollen and starting to bruise at being held so ruthlessly wide. The muscles in his lower back and buttocks desperately strain and tighten, sometimes with a contraction and sometimes without one, clearly fighting to bring the birth forward. 

“That’s it, darling,” Aziraphale says softly at the end of another terrible contraction, running a warm hand up and down the line of his spine. “Keep pushing, you’re almost there.” 

It’s clear that exhaustion has taken away Crowley’s ability to compartmentalize the sheer depth of agony he is experiencing, strangled grunts and groans tearing through his throat, his chest, sobs shaking his shoulders. 

Finally, a loud, broken scream escapes him, causing Aziraphale to jump at its volume. His own breath catches in his chest as he sees something hard and round push hard at Crowley’s rim, pushing forth into the bag of waters still bulging from him. 

“Push, Crowley, that’s it. Keep pushing,” he encourages, hoping Crowley can hear him over the sound of his cries. 

His voice cracks with each excruciating push, his entire body tight to the point of shattering apart. The head of the baby continues to crown without a care of his agony, and if Aziraphale thought Crowley had been held open wide before, he is sorely mistaken.

When the head rests at what he can only hope is its largest point, Crowley’s voice is gone, wet gasping breaths the only sound he is able to produce. 

“Push, darling, the head is almost out.” he says reassuringly, one hand heavy and solid in the middle of the demon’s back and the other between his legs, ready to catch. He’s careful not to touch. “Push.” 

The next contraction hits quickly, and Crowley pushes frantically, spreading his legs until he has opened his poor, thin hips as wide as he possibly can. The first half of the push seems to go nowhere, the head moving forward only to go right back when he is forced to stop and breathe. At the end of the contraction, completely frantic, Crowley gives the hardest push he can muster. His voice comes back in one rough scream as the head finally escapes him, and Aziraphale is unable to control his own sobs in reaction. 

“Oh, you _brilliant thing_ , look at what you’ve done,” he says wetly, uncaring of the tears falling down his cheeks. His heart is filling up his chest and throat with sheer wonder and love for both Crowley and this new, innocent little being he has created. “Born in the caul, my love.”

Crowley’s hand reaches back and tentatively touches the heavy bag of waters hanging from him, now holding the full head of the baby outside his body for the very first time. 

“Oh,” he whispers, voice absolutely mangled and awed. “Oh.” 

“You’re almost done,” Aziraphale manages, rubbing tender circles with his thumb right over his coccyx. “It’s almost over.”

Now that Crowley has let himself bridge the gap and allow himself to feel, he is unable to take back his hand. He pushes tentatively with the next contraction, palm open and ready beneath him. He finds his way back into a rhythm, each strain gaining strength as he works out the shoulders. 

Aziraphale can’t tell if the baby's head has turned, the water still in the sac obscuring some of it’s finer details, but he kneels up quickly as he sees one of the sharp shoulders start to push through.

“Push, push, push, darling, that’s it,” he whispers, running both hands up and down his spine as Crowley groans and quivers. “Just keep pushing, don’t stop now.”

A sharp yelp escapes him as one shoulder pushes forward, the second holding him open halfway. He moans mournfully as he lets the contraction go, the second shoulder moving back inside. 

Aziraphale can tell that he is at the end of his strength, pulled to the absolute limit of his abilities. 

“I know you’re tired,” he says, one hand a firm weight on his left thigh, squeezing gently. “You are so close. Just a few more pushes and you can rest, darling. It’ll be all over, but you need to push.” 

Crowley nods dazedly in response, whimpering slightly as he pulls his legs even wider. He breathes shakily, hand cradling the hot, heavy weight pulling hard between his thighs, before growling hard with his last contraction. Every muscle in his entire body tightens, from those up in his face down to his toes, curling in agony against the floor. But it does the trick.

With a pained gasp, the bag of amniotic waters finally breaks, fluid splattering on the floor. The mess is completely unheeded by both supernatural beings as with the release of pressure comes the fully weight of the baby, caught by the demon’s hands and pulled up to his chest in a heartbeat. 

Aziraphale carefully pulls him upright and into his arms, allowing him to rest his pained body against his chest.

Crowley quickly pulls the sac from the baby’s face, roughly rubbing and patting its back until with a few watery, wet coughs, it begins to cry. Aziraphale miracles a soft towel and gently wraps it around Crowley’s chest and arms, allowing him to cradle and warm the baby as it wails and cries against his breast. 

Crowley has one hand around it’s little bottom and the second rubbing gently at the few strands of ginger hair that lay damp on it’s tiny head. His golden eyes are now sharp and alert, taking in every single detail of the newborn in his quaking arms.

One of Aziraphale’s arms comes gingerly around Crowley’s body, helping to prop up Crowley’s arms without putting any pressure on his poor abused abdomen, now soft and swollen without the weight of the fluids and baby to pull it taut.

As the birth cries start to soften and the baby grizzles against his chest, Crowley gently moves it until he can rub a nipple against one downy soft cheek. When the little rosebud mouth opens, the most basic instincts already running strong, Crowley allows it to latch before finally leaning back heavily into the angel, boneless with exhaustion. 

For the first time in hours, Crowley turns his head to catch his eye. No words are needed. Instead, he leans forward until he can kiss Aziraphale on the lips, dizzy with joy and sheer relief. They part with a soft noise and Aziraphale tenderly kisses him on the forehead.

Crowley slumps even harder against him, eyes locked on the little one nursing hungrily at his breast. Aziraphale can only bring himself to close his eyes and breathe against them, arms and heart full and aching. 

He can’t help himself- he quietly thanks Someone that everything turned out alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this baby Aziraphale's or did Crowley's A+ imagination do this for him? You choose! I like to think it's a happy marriage of the two, but can be read as one, the other, or both.
> 
> And is the baby a boy or girl? Gender is just a construct, especially for two man-shaped-supernatural-beings. 
> 
> I've been working on this fic since I first watched Good Omens when it came out and I am so happy that it is finally finished. I am back on my bullshit and feeling better than ever.


End file.
